


Didn't Know That Was a Thing

by AnythingThrice



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017-18 season, Alternate Universe - Canon, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Chicago Blackhawks, Discovery, M/M, One Shot, Unresolved Sexual Tension, prostate toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 15:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19022998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnythingThrice/pseuds/AnythingThrice
Summary: Patrick notices it as he's searching the shelves in Jonny's bedroom forMadden 08: a weird glass sculpture, glossy black with bands of a trippy, swirling white pattern that seem to sit just under the surface. He figures it for a knickknack at first, some art piece his decorator suggested or—more likely—one of those locally-and-sustainably crafted souvenirs Jonny tends to bring back from his vacations.





	Didn't Know That Was a Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Title ganked from Patrick Kane's response to the NHL Puck Personality thingy on "Top to Bottom vs. Bottom to Top" AKA "Which way do you button your dress shirt?" AKA "Which Savvy NHL PR Goddess (or Clueless But Much Appreciated Intern) Allowed This Glorious Double-Entendre Nonsense?"

Patrick notices it as he's searching the shelves in Jonny's bedroom for _Madden 08_ : a weird glass sculpture, glossy black with bands of a trippy, swirling white pattern that seem to sit just under the surface. He figures it for a knickknack at first, some art piece his decorator suggested or—more likely—one of those locally-and-sustainably crafted souvenirs Jonny tends to bring back from his vacations. 

It's sitting on a short stack of folded hand towels though, right there between a rolled yoga mat and a basket of resistance bands, tennis balls, and small hand weights. Also, on closer inspection, it's got what looks like a handle at one end, and the overall shape seems like it might work for…

_Oh yeah. That's real nice._

The glass feels cold on his skin at first, but he's right: The loop fits neatly in his grasp and, by hooking the curved, lumpy end over his shoulder and applying a little force, the thing's fucking perfect for nailing the stubborn knot at the base of his neck.

He closes his eyes for a moment, gritting his teeth through the initial pain, then smiles as the relief sets in. Trust Jonny to own a back knobber that looks like it came from a museum. He keeps it in place as he hunts down what he's looking for and makes his way back to the merry chaos in the living room.

"Success!" he crows, holding the game aloft, then tossing it to Alex left-handed. "Blast from the past, boys. Enjoy."

He locates Jonny in the group of guys clustered around a Monopoly board—nursing his wine and smirking like the ruthless slumlord that he is—and heads over.

"Man, this thing is awesome," he says, withdrawing the tool from beneath his collar. He smacks it lightly against his palm, noticing that it's picked up the warmth of his skin. "Where'd you get it?"

He's used to Sharpy laughing at him, but he's in no way prepared for the sudden, choking-on-his-beer force of it, to the point where Murph has to thump his back. Nor does he understand why Jonny's suddenly gaping at him, then going beet red and glaring like Patrick's put the puck in the back of their own net… _and_ started celebrating.

"What the—" Patrick begins, but he's cut off by Jonny swearing, slamming his glass down mid-board—scattering little green houses and red hotels every which way—and lunging up from his seat.

He grabs the front of Patrick's shirt in one hand and his wrist in the other, growling, "Jesus fucking christ, Kaner, I swear…" as he hustles Patrick out of the room, then spins him around and practically frog marches him down the hall.

* * *

So. _Not_ a back knobber then. And not even, as he initially assumes after Jonny utters the mortifying words, "personal relief," some sort of novelty dildo left behind by an ex with a high-maintenance vagina. Patrick practically flings it at Jonny in his haste to let go.

"That thing's been in your butt?!"

"My prostate's not in my ear, bud," Jonny says, smug in a way that Patrick thinks is highly uncalled for. "Also, chill. It's clean. I sterilize after every use." He tosses it on the bed and heads over to his nightstand, crouching before the drawers.

Patrick's mind is hung up on those words, caught between horror and fascination— _Every use? Just how long has he had this thing? How often does he…?_ —and the sight of the butt in question, straining the seat of Jonny's jeans. 

They're an old pair, the black wash faded and fabric worn thin, hems starting to fray. Night-in jeans. Somewhere in Jonny's bedroom closet there'll be a carefully curated hamper of this shit, all raggedy, ancient pieces he can't bear to get rid of even if they've got no business slumming it on his multi-million dollar ass and…see? This is what's off here: Patrick _knows_ Jonny, knows all his habits.

_Except this. Never knew about this._

Patrick swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and tries to focus on what Jonny's saying as he ransacks his drawers. Sounds like he's apologizing, sort of—in a very unapologetic, roundabout way—for forgetting to put his fancy butt nudger away before most of the entire fucking team came over, even if he wasn't expecting any of them to be snooping in his bedroom.

Which Patrick _wasn't_ , because retrieving stuff you left at your forever-buddy's/first-real-guy-crush's place is never snooping, no matter how many years have passed or how many times they've changed addresses. 

Still, he mumbles a heartfelt, "No, my bad, man," as Jonny finally finds what he's looking for—a sleek black pouch—and straightens up. Patrick tears his gaze away, adding, "Don't think anyone but Sharpy really saw. I mean, don't think anyone else recognized…" He trails off, wondering now about Sharpy's laughter. The man's like a big brother to him, has taught him all sorts over the years, but never once has he mentioned _this_. 

Patrick scratches his neck, watching Jonny pop the toy in the pouch and cinch it closed, tying the drawstrings off in a slipknot. "How the hell did he know anyway?"

Jonny looks up. "Know what?" 

"About your…um, thing there."

"Sharpy is a man of the world, Kaner. As is his wife."

"Abby's not a—"

"You know what I mean," Jonny cuts in. "Point is, he wasn't laughing at me for owning a prostate tool. He was laughing at your dumb ass strolling out there with it like…" He glances down at the pouch in his hands and snorts, a smile tugging at his lips. "I mean, c'mon."

"What?"

Jonny shoots him a weird look. He stashes the pouch back in his nightstand—middle drawer, Patrick notes, though he's not sure why he's keeping track—then crosses over to where Patrick's standing. He comes too close, looming in like he's about to manhandle Patrick again. 

Patrick stands his ground though, juts his chin out. "What?" he says again—puts some venom in it this time. Less a question than a challenge.

Jonny snorts again, totally unfazed. "You're telling me you really didn't know?"

"Dude. _No._ Didn't even know that was a thing." _Wouldn't have touched it if I did._

"But you…" Jonny trails off, that dumb little smile creeping back in. Eyes trained on Patrick's face bright and steady.

Patrick drags in a breath as Jonny trails off. He wills his pulse to slow the fuck down. Tells himself that Jonny doesn't know shit, that he's the one being a giant freak here. Not Patrick.

Jonny shakes his head, says, "Never mind" just as there's a shout from the hall—Sharpy threatening to redistribute all of Jonny's properties if he doesn't get his fat ass back out there.

And Patrick thinks that's it, they're done here, that— _Hallelujah, Sharpy!_ —he's getting out of this awkwardness (mostly) unscathed. Then Jonny reaches out. Pats his shoulder, smooths down the front of his shirt where he'd grabbed it before.

"It is," Jonny murmurs. "Definitely a thing. Don't knock it until you've tried it, eh? Blew my mind for sure."

"Fuck off." He shoves at Jonny, but the bastard leans in, putting his weight into it, locking his arm around Patrick's neck and tugging down. 

"Not getting any younger, Pat," he says, right up against Patrick's ear, and it's nothing like it is out on the ice. His lips are dry. Warm. "Prostate health is very important."

Then he's pushing Patrick away and stalking out of the bedroom door, calling, "I'll redistribute your face if you even try, bud, then we'll see who'll hire you to be on TV." 

Patrick is left standing near the foot of Jonny's bed with fistfuls of air, half-hard, half-pissed and one hundred percent rattled.


End file.
